


Phantom Limb

by obirain



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Fluff, F/M, Other, Post-Order 66 (Star Wars), gender neutral reader, implied PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:40:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28512810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obirain/pseuds/obirain
Summary: On the run from the newly formed Empire, you and Rex happen on a place you hope to call home, at least for a while. But adjusting to a new life may be harder than you thought.
Relationships: CT-7567 | Rex/Reader, CT-7567 | Rex/You
Kudos: 7





	Phantom Limb

**Author's Note:**

> Request from Tumblr: “petrichor,” the pleasant smell that accompanies the first rain after a long period of dry weather

The rain’s loud as blaster fire on the roof of your abandoned shack, at the top of a little hill in a sea of dying grass. 

Not too long abandoned, you’d thought. When you found it two weeks ago, the bed was made; there were logs in the fireplace, water in the kettle, plain kitchenware on the shelves, old shirts in the dresser. A remnant of a vegetable garden by the back window, with a little wooden fence. But dust blanketed every surface; weeds had long since choked the garden. As if whoever lived here hadn’t died, or fled, but simply… vanished. You shuddered at the thought. 

“This could do nicely, don’t you think?”

Silence but for the wind along the open window. Rex stood in the doorway, looking out towards the hills.

“It’ll be a tight fit,” you continued, “but after some dusting, maybe, some sweeping… get the stove working again… And I doubt the Empire will find us here.”

“Not for a few days, at least. Maybe a few weeks.” You didn’t miss the thickness in his voice.

“Let’s hope so. This could be home.” You joined him in the doorway and watched the endless expanse of sun-stricken grass ripple in the wind like an ocean miles deep. Fragile autumn blue met indigo clouds far in the east like a wall of water rushing onwards. And there stood you and Rex and your little shack, in silence upon the brink. 

And after twelve more days of taunting clouds—the deluge. You awoke to a thousand drums in your ears and an empty bed; in place of a warm body next to you was a wrinkled piece of paper with messy handwriting. _out for wood._

Out in the rain, out in a strange place, far from your shack, far from home. Far from you. 

But you picked yourself up. You made your bed. You washed your face; you dressed. You straightened, you dusted. You set out a metal tub to catch the rain. You made yourself breakfast. You made yourself lunch. You made yourself dinner. Rex didn’t return. 

And he doesn’t—not until the sunless sky has long since darkened. And _when_ he does—he swings the narrow door open and shut, kicks off his boots, peels off his soaked, mud-spattered shirt, without a single look at you. You hug your knees to your chest and pull the bedsheets tighter around you, waiting for him to speak. He doesn’t.

“You’ve been gone a long time.”

“‘S a long walk,” he mutters, tugging on some dry clothes. “All the wood’s wet.”

“Well, I could have told you that,” you chuckle. He drags a chair in front of the stove; the screech of wood on wood tears through the gentle drum of the rain. He still won’t look at you. 

“Rex? … Rex, what’s—”

“Nothing.” The edge in his voice cuts through your chest like a knife. “Just—never mind.”

Your fists ball in the sheets. “No. What is it, Rex? Go ahead.”

He shoots you a glare from the corner of his eye. Maybe it’s best he not look at you, after all. 

“Kriffin’ weather’s, all. Can’t stand the damn place,” he adds under his breath. 

“‘The damn place’?” You can feel your nails digging into your skin through the thick fabric. “Where else should we go, then? Back to the ship? Back to Coruscant? This is the closest we’ve gotten to a _home_ in months—”

“I know!” He deflates and shakes his head. “You—you wouldn’t understand.”

You’re quiet. The rain only pounds harder on the shingled roof. “Maybe I wouldn’t. Goodnight, Rex.”

You turn away and pull the blankets over your face, and hope that if you cry, the rain will drown you out. 

* * *

It’s silent when you wake up. Silent and cold; you’re alone in the bed and the fire’s died down. You sit up; your head swims and your neck aches. Your eyes struggle to adjust to the pale gray light. 

Rex is still in front of the stove—sometime in the night, he abandoned his chair and now lies propped up against the bed, arms folded to keep himself warm. 

You don’t wake him, not even to move him to the bed. He’d never fall back asleep. So you settle. You pull the duvet from the mattress and spread it over his shoulders, run a hand through his overgrown hair. For a moment, you think you’ve woken him: he sighs and whispers something you don’t catch. But the moment passes, and his eyes stay shut. 

You’ve heard of people waking up after an unpleasant night, and not remembering a thing of it for hours. Fuck, you wish that were you. 

But you pick yourself up. You make your bed. You wash your face; you dress. You open the windows. The smell of wet soil wafts in with the cool morning air, cleansing your home—your one-room abandoned shack, actually. Your cheeks burn with shame. This isn’t your home. 

A puddle’s formed beneath Rex’s still-damp clothes; you hope it hasn’t permanently damaged the wood. But that’s a worry for later; for now you only mop it up with a towel and dump his shirt and trousers into a fraying reed basket along with the rest of your dirty clothes, and head out the door with a bar of soap. 

The rain filled the metal tub to overflowing. You set down your laundry basket, kneel in the wet grass, roll up your sleeves, and set to washing. 

You kneel until your knees ache, until you have to wipe the sweat from your eyes with swollen, rubbed-raw hands. The sun’s fully risen now, with nothing to celebrate it but the sloshing water and occasional morning bird. You sit back on your heels and look into the east, into a clear, cold, cloudless dawn. 

The door opens and closes behind you. 

“Didn’t wake you up, did I?” you ask the open air. 

“Not at all.” He sits at your left and stretches out his legs. You can see his hand dancing over the grass between you, even if you refuse to look at his face. “Listen, I’m… I…”

“I know,” you say quietly. “Me too.”

Rex nods. Several seconds pass in silence; you let them. 

“I, er, I haven’t seen that much rain since Kamino.” He clears his throat. “It’s—it’s strange, being here, without… when…”

His voice breaks. You risk a glance at his face; his jaw trembles from the strain and unshed tears shine unmistakably in the morning light. Your eyes begin to well with their own. 

“It’s okay to struggle, Rex.”

He nods. 

“Just… let me struggle with you.”

This time, he can’t stop the tears from spilling over. You raise your hand—hesitantly—to catch them on your thumb. He covers your hand in his, pressing a kiss to your palm, and sighs. “Cyare… Cyare, your fingers.”

“They’re fine,” you insist as he examines them. “Just a little raw.”

“I’ll finish it.”

“You—”

“The wash. Go inside, make yourself some caf. Go back to bed. Do something nice for yourself. I’ll finish it.”

He squeezes your hand; you wince at the pressure and your protest dies on your lips. So you nod and struggle off your aching knees. He stands with you, a little wobbly as well—but he catches his balance quickly, takes your face in his hands, and kisses you. Unrushed but firm, his lips chapped but warm, and for a moment you feel that your legs could give out and his hands alone could keep you up. 

“Go on, hm?” He smiles at you—really, truly smiles like the Captain from back in the day, like a relic from home. A living, _breathing_ relic that you return freely. Living, breathing, fresh, and warm. Familiar yet anew. 

He catches your hand as you walk away, just for a moment. When you reach the door, he’s still standing in front of the tub, staring into the sunrise beyond the hills with his shoulders relaxed and a contented sigh on his lips. And when you brew your caf by the open window, you hear him humming a tune deeper and lovelier than rainfall. 


End file.
